


What Happens In Kirkwall (may not necessarily stay in Kirkwall)

by DreamerInSilico



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Fic Compilation, Humor, Modern Thedas, Multi, Prompt Fic, everyone's in Kirkwall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-06 18:45:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 10,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16838293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamerInSilico/pseuds/DreamerInSilico
Summary: This is a compilation of prompted one-shots written in the context of a large, closed group roleplay on Tumblr.  Each chapter is a separate fic, labeled at the top with content warnings, ship if applicable, etc.  (Zevran PoV 1-11; OC Mother Bryony Verreuil PoV 12-13.)I'm really mad that my Morrigan blog already got deleted, because I had more for her than for anyone else.  Hopefully I'll be able to find my back-ups at some point.





	1. The Moment I Said It (Zevran/M!Hawke)

**Author's Note:**

> These are aaaaaaancient history, but with Tumblr going up in flames, I'm taking steps to make sure all of my work is archived here.
> 
> All of these stories share a 'verse, but not necessarily a continuity.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zevran finds out Taliesen is in town. (Angst)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "The Momment I Said It," by Imogen Heap.
> 
> For as long as tumblr doesn't delete it, if you're interested in this version of Zevran, the RP blog is here: http://antivanstormcrow.tumblr.com/

Zevran hummed to himself as he chopped herbs, absently pondering a new remix he was working on. It was well past supper time by the majority of the city’s standards, but neither he nor Garrett were part of the majority in much of anything, and the latter would be arriving after his shift at the Rose was finished (and if Zevran’s estimates were correct, right about when the food would be ready). 

Sure enough, he heard the human’s heavy footsteps on the landing outside his door a few minutes later, even over the soft sound of his own humming. Zevran opened the door with a welcoming grin and was immediately swept up into a hard, enthusiastic kiss by his tree of a lover, Garrett’s momentum pushing forward to pin him against the wall just across from the kitchen. The kiss might have escalated – much as many a similar greeting had done so before – but the assassin pulled free with a last, deep stab of his tongue and a chuckle, nodding toward the kitchen. “As you can likely tell, I made dinner, and I even under-spiced it just for you. I will be terribly put-out if it burns to a crisp because you’ve made me forget about it. Again.” 

Garrett gave him the guilty-but-not-at-all-sorry smirk that Zevran was, at this point, intimately used to. “So put-out you’ll take revenge the same way you did last time? If so, sign me up,” he retorted playfully, though he reluctantly released the hold he had on Zevran’s waist. As if to contradict his words, Garrett’s stomach chose that moment to growl quite loudly, and they both laughed. Dinner it was. 

Over braised chicken stew (in truth, it was _almost_ spicy enough for Zevran; Garrett’s tolerance for authentic Antivan cooking was considerably higher than most of his countrymen’s), the pair exchanged their usual easy banter, and the night was shaping up to be a resounding success. Until Garrett looked up from his food suddenly, as if just remembering something, and changed the subject. 

“Oh, I meant to tell you – there was a guy asking around about you at the Rose tonight. I took my cue from the ones he asked before me and didn’t tell him anything he hadn’t already heard” 

Zevran felt a frisson of unease at the statement, but mentally shooed it away. It was not so uncommon for new potential clients to bumble around publicly, asking for one of his aliases he used as an information broker. “When you say asking about me, you mean…?” 

“You,” Garrett replied. “By your real name. He didn’t just come to me; he was asking several people. I got the impression he expected the Rose to be the sort of place where people would know you.” 

_That_ was worrisome. Zevran sucked in a sharp breath. “Antivan?”

The other man made a face at him, shaking his head. “I’m not a total idiot, you know; if he’d been Antivan I’d have found a way to get in touch with you then and there. I’m pretty sure he was Fereldan.” 

The whisper of unease had matured into an almost nauseating dread mixed with resignation. Fereldan was _much_ worse. “Was he tall, perhaps a handspan shorter than you, and wiry, with dark hair and pale blue eyes?” Zevran asked. Such details of appearance as hair and eye color could be changed, of course, but Taliesin had never liked doing that, and his coloring was common enough in the Marches that it was unlikely to be noted. 

He knew a fair amount of his reaction must be showing on his face by now, because Garrett was looking very concerned. “Yeah, actually… friend of yours?”

The harsh laugh that burst from Zevran’s chest sounded strange even to his own ears. “Unfortunately, yes. You could even say he was my best friend, as much as such a concept can apply to Crows.” 

“…Shit.”

“Yes, exactly,” Zevran replied tersely, already up from the table, meal forgotten and mind racing. He needed to make calls, needed _intel_ , needed weapons, and he needed it all now. It was bad enough that Taliesin had gotten into Kirkwall without his knowledge; if he was asking questions at the Rose, he might already know about –

“Um, Zev? What are you doing?” Garrett asked, still at the table with fork in-hand. 

“Trying to make up for the time he has already gained on me.” He could call the Rose… no, no good; the line may well be tapped by now. The next logical choice was to send Garrett back to ask…. _Absolutely not._ One of his other contacts, then. 

Furious with himself, he stalked through the apartment, gathering gear methodically, automatically. He had become comfortable in this city to the point of complacence. _Mistake the first._ And then he had failed to put appropriate safeguards in place for… for the people who mattered to him. That particular realization was the part of all this that had been the true punch to the gut. He had not planned for danger to anyone save himself because he had not planned on… _this_. This _fear_. That emotion was almost a stranger to Zevran, and a most unwelcome one, at that.

Garrett was standing now, too, brow furrowed in a frown. “Hey, I get that this isn’t good – that it’s really bad, even – but you’re at home. Your somewhat-secret and thoroughly booby-trapped home, which currently contains the deadliest assassin in Kirkwall and a damned good primal mage, if I do say so myself. And you look like you’re about to rush out by yourself to track this guy down, which has me more than a little confused.” _And worried,_ his eyes said. 

“This is worse than ‘really bad,’” Zevran insisted through clenched teeth. “Taliesin had ambitions of ruling the Crows with me one day. We would have done so, had I stayed, I do not doubt. That should tell you what you need to know about how dangerous he is.” 

“Look, I’m just saying – “ Garrett paused, and Zevran was dimly aware that the human was sharply reining in his frustration. “I know you need to deal with him. We need to deal with him. But let’s sit down and do some planning instead of you running off – “ Zevran’s breath caught at Garrett’s tone when he switched pronouns, but it only made his sense of urgency all the more dire. 

“There is no time.” He was going through his poison stash now, pulling out his most precious stocks. 

“ _Zevran._ ” The deep voice came from just behind him, this time, accompanied by firm hands on his shoulders, turning him around to face Garrett. 

“You do not understand,” Zevran hissed, more pained than angry. “Every minute that passes is more chance for him to find new information and lay his own plans.” 

Garrett looked taken aback, though whether it was a result of Zevran’s tone of voice or the contradictory pleading in his eyes, the elf did not know. “But you’re as good as he is. Time he spends planning, you can – “

“ _He has nothing and no one to lose but himself._ ”

They both paused, the knowledge of what Zevran had just tacitly admitted hanging in the air between them. Zevran took a gulped breath and willed himself to continue. “I have been complacent, careless. There are many he could go to for information that would point him at _you,_ and if you think he will hesitate to use that… connection…” He trailed off and slipped away, finishing his preparations in a flurry, avoiding Garrett’s gaze. He would have to convince him… “I know you will not wish to, but please… for a few hours, at least, stay here; let me assess – “

There was very suddenly a fist in his hair, wrenching him back around with more of Garrett’s strength than the human usually put into things, even when they were rough with one another, followed immediately by a breath-stealingly vehement kiss. “ _Shut up_ , you fucking _idiot_. If you’re going to go do something hasty and stupid, I’m going with you. Don’t try arguing; if you try to stop me, I think you know I can just knock you out and keep you here.” 

Zevran finally met Garrett’s eyes, indignation and affection and admiration and a dozen other intense and conflicting emotions far too tangled up inside his head to express at the moment… so he simply nodded, conceding to the inevitability that was this man in front of him.


	2. Feel It All (Zevran/M!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zevran and Garrett play cat and mouse with Taliesin. Zevran Experiences An Emotion and Doesn't Much Like It. (Action & Angst)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Feel It All" by KT Tunstall

Somewhere, in a half-buried, unwelcome string of morbid intuition, Zevran had always known it would come to this, eventually. He had sealed some form of this scene into his own future the moment he had made the decision to leave – the Crows would come for him, and they would wear Taliesin’s face. The deadly game of cat-and-mouse in which they were currently engaged had been played out in Zevran’s head many times over. He always won, because to imagine otherwise was to resign oneself to death; sometimes he would catch his nemesis by surprise and end it quickly, sometimes the two men were locked in struggle for hours, but victory always came, whether early or late. One element had always been missing from those scenarios, however, and that pivotal inaccuracy was now the source of the greatest fear that the erstwhile Crow ever remembered feeling: 

In those hypothetical battlegrounds, he had never had anyone other than himself to protect. 

But here he was, leading – or perhaps at times being led by – Taliesin in circles, attempting to close the distance at the right moment to end this at last, and all of his thoughts looped back to a particular large, ursine mage who had broken off perhaps ten minutes earlier to deal with Taliesin’s pack of underlings. To think of Garrett Hawke as one who needed Zevran’s protection seemed faintly ridiculous by itself, but his life was on the line right now, and it wouldn’t be if not for the assassin’s past coming to call. While guilt, gratitude, and anger all danced a madcap reel in Zevran’s mind, it was the fear that presided over them all – fear that Garrett might pay the price for his carelessness, fear of losing him, and darker things best left to half-remembered nightmares one woke up from in the arms of the dream’s protagonist. 

It wasn’t supposed to be this way.

The all-but-imperceptible scrape of a leather sole on asphalt sounded from behind and to his left… and _up_ – not asphalt, then, but shingles – Taliesin was on the roof above him. 

Zevran dodged under the eaves of the building just in time to see a throwing knife clatter to the street where he had been standing a moment earlier, concealing himself in the shadows and seeking out a place he could wait for Taliesin to come looking for him. 

It wasn’t supposed to be this way, but it was, and there was no changing it now; only living through it to be able to ponder his mistakes in a more philosophical frame of mind later. 

_You fool no one, Zevran. Philosophy will be the last thing on your mind when this is over._ Had he been alone, he would have snorted quietly to himself with that thought. Underneath the anger and even the fear, there were brighter things peaking through. Not all of these concepts had names, but they were real and present, like a cache of gemstones partially-unearthed, waiting to be polished and examined, though the thought of doing so raised an altogether different sort of fear. 

As if his former lover and current adversary could read his mind, that dreadfully familiar voice came ricocheting around the narrow alley from what might as well have been all directions at once, in Fereldan-accented Antivan. “You haven’t changed a bit, Zev!” Laughter. “Still getting tangled up with weaklings who can be used against you. I guess it’s no grand surprise you’d run away from me – you don’t know how to deal with someone on your own level!” 

The insinuation regarding Garrett’s strength and competence would have made Zevran burst out laughing, had circumstances been less dire. Instead, he gritted his teeth and slipped silently along the side of the building, looking for a protected way up. The echoes masked Taliesin’s location, but not completely. He was still on a roof. 

“My people have him cornered, now, you know,” the voice continued, still taunting. “Do you remember the game, Zev? The one the Masters played with us?” 

Suddenly, Zevran could barely breathe. 

“I wonder how long it would take you to work up the will to kill him yourself. I’d even be generous – no need to rush things, like they always did.” 

Until that point, Zevran had always thought the phrase ‘seeing red’ to be a figurative piece of melodrama, but now he was experiencing it firsthand. He bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood, keeping his jaws clamped shut. He had _never_ given in to combat taunts, and if there was a worse time than this to start doing so, he didn’t know what it was. 

This needed to end, _now_. Dropping to a crouch, Zevran felt along the ground for something small – not a pebble; that would be too loud and therefore make for an obvious ploy. There. A chip of plastic smaller than a coin in his hand, he stood back up and carefully chose his cover. 

“Would that make it better, or worse, I wonder, having time for a touching goodbye?” Taliesin jeered, and this time Zevran silently thanked him for his timing, as it would make the noise he was about to produce more plausible as an accident born of fury. He gently tossed the shard of plastic, and it landed with a soft tap against a brick stair. 

No green youth, Taliesin did not drop down immediately to attack. He would be paused, stock-still and mapping out his descent and pounce before it happened, then probably make his own decoy noise to belie his angle of attack. In his head, Zevran counted to ten. 

On six, he heard the expected sound, another slight boot scrape. On nine, a dark form swung over the eaving to land silently on the ground behind cover. 

Except it was, as Zevran had hoped, cover relative to the direction of the decoy sound rather than the waiting elf, and he took the opportunity to fling a throwing knife coated in his most precious poison at the man’s back, where it embedded deeply, just beside the shoulder blade. Much as he would have preferred to leap in to finish his enemy off, Taliesin was still dangerous; instead he ducked fully around the corner he had leaned out from to wait for the poison to begin to take effect. 

When the string of curses from the human’s mouth began to slur, he knew he had won. There was a brief twinge of significance, a rush of memories that the man who lay bleeding out at his feet a moment later had created with Zevran, what seemed like a lifetime ago. Yet despite this event finally solidifying in Zevran’s personal model of fate, there was neither satisfaction in it, nor the barest sense of relief, and even what few wisps of melancholy that trailed in the wake of memory were completely eclipsed by one imperative: he had to find Garrett. 

…

Half an hour and one much messier skirmish than his own duel with Taliesin later, it was truly over. Contrary to Taliesin’s boast, the man’s team – two full Crows and two advanced apprentices – had not quite managed to corner Garrett, who had led them on a not-so-merry chase as far away from Zevran as he could. One of them had caught him with magebane poison early on, so it wasn’t nearly as even a fight as it should have been, and Zevran was briefly, intensely grateful that he had been able to track them quickly. 

They were both alive. 

There was too much wrapped up in that thought for Zevran to even begin to express it, other than to grasp Garrett’s face in hands streaked with blood (his own and others’) and kiss him, brief and searingly. And then it was far, far worse, because the knot of emotions began to unwind, along with the terrible knowledge that this would not be the last time the deadliest assassin’s guild in Thedas caught up to him. 

_I cannot do this again. I cannot ask him to do this again, and it will be inevitable if I remain._

_I cannot risk another contingent of Crows learning… of my… attachment._

_‘Do you remember the game, Zev?’_

Oh yes. He remembered the game – far, far too well. 

They were quiet as they checked each other for injuries, and Zevran for signs that either of them had been poisoned beyond Garrett’s initial encounter with magebane; though both were somewhat the worse for wear, they could at least both walk, and that was a definite improvement on other times they had run into trouble of the armed variety. Garrett had been equally emphatic in returning the kiss, but Zevran could tell that his lover had picked up on the darker part of his mood almost immediately after that. He answered a concerned lift of thick eyebrows with a tight smile that _hurt_ to form, resignedly knowing that Garrett would notice that as well. Even if he did not always guess the source of Zevran’s turmoil, the mage always saw it, as no other had before nor likely would after. And that hurt, too, as if every thought Zevran had was scraped raw and ready to flinch at the slightest hint of scrutiny. 

The silence grew thick, yet hollow between them as they made their way back to Zevran’s apartment, and the assassin found himself aching to break it, to pull them back to something like normalcy and forget about the hateful conclusion the night had brought him to. 

But there was no forgetting it, just as there would be no reinterment of that glittering cache of stones that taunted him from his thoughts. The silence grew more hollow still. 


	3. Touched (Zevran/F!Cousland)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feelings are Hard. (Feels and Angst)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Touched," by Vast.

He had fought the compulsion to go looking for her again, told himself to wait until his equilibrium returned and he could look back at that strange, perilous moment two days ago and shape it into something ordinary and safe. He had fought, and he had lost. 

_They had reached her apartment without being seen, their pursuers slowed in the maze of half-askew buildings and dead-end alleys. Zevran will need to lie low for a few days, but for now there is relative safety._

_A sudden, almost frantic need – perhaps born of relief, but who is to say? – pulls both of them together, their bodies clashing as they begin to shed weapons and clothing with none of the finesse they both normally manage. Their dance bears a mounting violence that owns nothing of conflict and everything of passion… it is different, but not alarmingly so._

_In the aftermath, they talk, but there is a weight to the space between them, full of unsaid words that Zevran cannot even read, and after hours of trying to pluck them out of the air, if only to see what they are, he simply kisses her. The tug he feels then is not the physical reaction that he is so familiar with; it is an alien need to tell her… what? What is his body trying to say that he cannot speak?_

_He is shaken and tries not to show it, but she sees when no one else would have. When he finally leaves, there is a feeling like glass breaking._

He scoffed at himself internally – there was no way to make that _safe_. And so here he was, still taking some care to hide his presence from potentially hostile eyes, but brazenly chasing down the source of his discomfiture. When he found her, he did not give her – or himself – a chance to think, slamming her against a wall in a half-hidden alley and holding her wrists captive until she recognized him and released her weapons. 

Elissa did not protest his roughness, but rather yielded to it, letting him catch her hair in a hold that had meant death to more than one of his targets over the years and meeting the ferocity of his kiss just as freely, even ardently. For the first time, that near-automatic trust struck him to the core – somehow this was more than what occurred in their frequent games of aggression. They did not stand in a protected haven, and the last time they had spoken it had ended with him grasping for words and then leaving with the frayed end of their conversation still trailing raggedly behind him. 

It was different; of that there was no longer any doubt. 

When they parted, both breathing hard, words still failed him, long seconds passing with their eyes locked and a rushing in his ears that felt like something between desire and panic. Elissa was the one to break the silence at last, her voice low and slightly dazed, lips quirked into a bemused half-smile. “ _Well_ … What was that?”

Zevran was not sure what the answer was until he was saying it. “That… was an apology for my abrupt departure.” Her eyebrows went up. “And… perhaps an invitation.” 

“Oh?”

“Indeed… I do not think that I wish to test our good friends’ diligence in searching for me by spending an evening out quite yet, but if you would care to join me at my home…” he trailed off, still strangely uncertain. 

Her smile stretched to take in the other side of her lips, flushed almost to the point of bruising from the kiss. “Of course.”

Even the relief he felt at her easy acceptance was an anomaly, but this one he could choose to ignore… at least for now. 


	4. Enemy Eyes (Zevran/F!Cousland)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zevran slipped up and got caught by a blood mage in the Crows' employ. (Angst)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Enemy Eyes," by The Anix.

The contract had been a set-up. 

For the hundredth time that hour, Zevran cursed himself for a fool. There must have been something, _anything_ he could have picked up from the contact to tip him off that there was more going on. Or when the patrols he’d dodged were just a little too convenient in their timing. His plan of attack had gone perfectly, and that very seldom happened with underground organizations. Targets in Hightown were childishly simple, trusting their clockwork security to keep them safe, but criminals knew better. 

They _always_ knew better. 

He had brought poison for mages because he always did, but he hadn’t thought it would be necessary, so it had been stowed in a side pocket when the blood mage had revealed himself. 

So stupid. 

His captor had been quite professional, but his lackies had not, and so Zevran knew that he only lived to wait for the arrival of the Crow agent sent to bring him down - or back to Antiva, perhaps, but whether a slow death or a fast one, it would be death all the same. His lip curled in derision when he thought of a Crow hiring others to do his work for him. Not provide to backup - his nameless enemy had not even participated in the operation. 

Else he - or she - would already be here. 

In the meantime, the mage had proven himself quite the sadist: Zevran was hanging upside down from the ceiling by his feet, his hands left free. Normally it would have been trivial for him to escape this confinement, but there was a bloody, aching wound etched into the back of each of his hands, and when he had first come to and tried to move them… nothing. 

The sick rush of horror that had accompanied that particular revelation had few rivals in his memory. 

The best he could do was keep moving and try to stay conscious. As long as he was alive, he had to be ready to exploit any opportunity that presented itself. He told himself that he had gotten out of worse straits before by keeping his wits about him, which was true on the surface… but this had been a capture masterminded by a Crow and carried out by a blood mage. They were very unlikely to underestimate his resourcefulness. 

When his mind had started to try to retreat from the pain and anger into the relative sanctuary of unconsciousness once more, he had pulled it back with thoughts of her. 

Fate likely thought it hilariously ironic that so soon after he had found his whole perspective shifted as it had been, his freedom was taken from him… as if he had been allowed to escape just so he could find the one thing that would break him when they caught him again. 

The darkness called, and he answered it with the image of lamplight on her blades and the matching glint in her eye. 

_A shout of alarm, so distant it had nothing to do with his world._

The darkness called, and he refused it with the brush of her hair across his skin. 

_An outcry that broke into abrupt silence, like a throat being cut._

The darkness called, and he defied it with the memory of her voice.

 _“Open this door, or so help me, I will spend_ weeks _killing you, mage.”_


	5. Spiral (Zevran/F!Cousland)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Follows "Enemy Eyes." Zevran's been rescued and is realizing this. (Feels & Angst)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Wow* I remember my fics from this era being a lot more light-hearted than they apparently were!

When they cut him down from his prison, Zevran had been swimming through a fraught twilight, trying to find his way to the surface, but he knew no direction and saw no light. There were voices, but they came from everywhere and nowhere all at once, the occasional word cutting through the muffling water, seldom enough to spin a thread of coherence. 

He had thought he heard her once, twice? He had been thinking of her voice and then it was in his ears, or seemed to be, making his heart leap at first, then subside with the surety that he was alone, simply grasping at good memories to fill the empty depths of the void. 

Had she ever sounded so desperately angry, though, in those pleasant memories? It was confusing, but that was the way of dreams. 

“ _Anders,”_ she had said. It was an order, or perhaps a plea. 

But there was the jolt, and the faintly increased sense of _presence_ , an awareness that he was still in the world of the living, skimming just below the surface now. There were scents – the heavy, metallic tang of blood, but also sweat and musk… male… familiar. His hands ached, and he had the sense that they had been doing so for quite some time, an old complaint that had faded into the background now brought back by the tingling in his fingertips. Involuntarily, his hands clenched, fingers pressing into cloth over muscle, and there was some surprise in the realization that he could now move them. 

_What - ?_

He was no longer hanging in midair, but rather draped across a hard, irregular surface. _Where was she?_ Had he dreamed her voice in his wishful thinking, concocted the fiction of a rescue while in truth the Crow agent had finally arrived to move him? 

“Elissa, I think he might be coming around.” The voice was Garrett’s. “Fingers are digging into my arm all of a sudden.” 

_Elissa was here?_

“Zev?” She sounded strained, but hopeful, and he started to believe that it was no daydream. 

Direction and motion took on meaning again, and the sensory input that had been slowly filtering back to him now could be pieced together to make sense. He was slung across Garrett’s broad shoulders in a fireman’s carry, and Garrett was walking. Elissa was nearby. No other voices. 

The motion of the body that bore him halted, and he strained to open his eyes. The light – street light, by the color, if it could be called such a thing – was nearly blinding after so long in the dark, but a silhouette he knew stood out in the brightness. The light was too much; he allowed his eyes to close again, but she had seen, at least. 

There were more words exchanged, but they were lost in the flood of relief that swept through his mind, half-drowning it once again. 

_She was safe._

She was safe, and he was with her and not on his way to a slow death back in Antiva. His body was likely horrifyingly weak, but it seemed mostly intact, as best he could tell, and now he remembered the mention of the apostate healer’s name, back at what must have been the room where he had been held captive. They were likely on their way to the Darktown clinic now. 

_She was safe._

It should have disturbed Zevran – and later, when he recalled the deadly-honest introspection from while he had been a captive, it definitely would – that his thoughts kept circling back around to her. 


	6. Undisclosed Desires (Zevran/F!Cousland)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feelings Are Hard, Again. (Fluff. Sorta.) Follows "Enemy Eyes" and "Spiral."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately this fic's companion from Elissa's PoV is no longer on the internet, but it works alright on its own. Prompt: "Undisclosed Desires," by Muse.

In the days, then weeks that followed Anders bringing him fully back into the land of the living, Zevran transitioned quite quickly from feeling terrible to feeling frustrated, but the transition from frustrated to almost-normal was much slower in coming. Elissa seemed to think that he was simply railing against the physical restrictions of a tedious recovery, and at first, he had even allowed himself to see it as such. But gradually, as he began to think of those days in captivity with more clarity and to register the return of the acute, aimless tension that had sprung up not so very long ago in his interactions with Elissa, it became undeniable his disquiet had a different source. 

Oh, his physical infirmity irked him, but such recoveries were part and parcel of an assassin’s lifestyle and Zevran was more than experienced enough to know how to force himself to patience even as he pushed his body to regain strength as fast as it could. This was something else, a question – or was it an answer? – that was rapidly growing too large to be ignored. 

At first, he compared it to how he had thought of Rinna, all those years ago in Antiva, and that had seemed to make sense, but the memory ultimately fell short of the intensity of what he was experiencing now. That was the answer… but knowing that, what would he _do_ with it? How did an assassin put into words and actions the one concept he had forbidden himself? 

When he was finally strong enough to return to his usual activities, it was an incredible relief when she derailed their dinner plans almost as soon as she’d walked in his door by kissing him and not pausing for breath, let alone thought, until they were lying sweaty and sated on his bed. _Sex_ was something Zevran understood very well, even if there did seem to be that same extra weight behind each action, and a frantic poignancy in each kiss. 

But when all was said (or rather, not said) and done, the tension was still there and neither of them could avoid acknowledging it any longer. 

“ _I don’t even know how it happened, but it did, and now I’m standing here raving like a lunatic in your bedroom because I love you and I don’t know how to do it.”_ Her pained words were wrenched out of the silence, but then hung suspended within it as he turned them about in his mind as if they could force his own thoughts to coalesce and speak their name. 

In the end, it was the need for action that freed him from that held-breath stasis – the realization that she had dropped to the floor and was looking even more lost than he felt. He could suffer that anguish in himself, but not in her, and that understanding was another piece of the puzzle falling into place as he slid out of bed to kneel on the floor before her and reached out, slowly, carefully, and brushed his fingers along her cheek. 

“I… “ He paused, let out the breath, and tried again. “I cannot pretend to be any more knowledgeable than you in this, _mi viuda negra_ …” The whimsical nickname that had become an endearment suddenly seemed inadequate for this place, this time. “… _Elissa_ ,” he amended.

“But… this confusion, this frustration you have is something I – “ 

No, that was not where he wanted to go with this. He swallowed and used a finger to tilt her face upward, ever so slightly, so he could meet her eyes. “I would have you know that I feel the same. Perhaps… we might learn how to do it, together.”


	7. Quite Me/Love Me (Zevran/F!Cousland)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elissa found out that her old flame's father was the one who ordered the hit on her family, and is understandably distressed about it. (Angst)

Zevran was in the Night Market, just concluding an exchange of information with one of his freelance contacts, when he got the text message. 

_Are you at home? May I come see you?_

Normally, a request to meet from Elissa would be received with unalloyed enjoyment – it happened less than he would prefer since she had become a Grey Warden – but she very seldom used her phone, and even less frequently asked him to be somewhere so abruptly. Something was wrong. 

_Of course. I will be there in 20 minutes_ , he replied, hastily disengaging from his somewhat chatty contact. 

“I am sorry, my friend, but I must go. Do inform me if the situation develops further, of course, and I will see that you are well-compensated.” 

He made the trip at a fast walk when in the open, and a dead run when he could avoid drawing attention, getting there with five minutes to spare. Only a few minutes later, he heard the telltale sound of the lock being picked – Elissa was the only person other than himself who knew how to do so while circumventing both the alarm and the nastier surprise that awaited would-be intruders – and then she was in his apartment and pacing like a caged tiger, the door re-locked behind her. Her face was a mask that was just starting to crack, as if she had kept herself under rigid control until she got here and was only now allowing it to slip. 

“What is it, _amor mío_?” he asked, hesitant to touch her, though he normally would have caught her in a kiss as soon as she had entered. 

Her hazel eyes met his, and the depth of pain and _anger_ he saw there hit him like a kick to the chest. “It was _his father_ ,” she hissed, practically spitting the words. 

It took Zevran a moment to process what she had said – an unqualified, angry ‘him’ from Elissa had only ever meant one person, but that left him without a clue as to what Nathaniel’s father might have done.

“Does Nathaniel know, I wonder?” Elissa demanded of the air. “I wouldn’t have thought he could look me in the eye again if he had, but I once would not have thought a lot of things where he was concerned, and look how that turned out.” 

“Does Nathaniel know… what?” Zevran prodded gently, ruthlessly shoving down his own anger as it rose in sympathy with hers. There would be time for that later.

Elissa had stopped beside the table, propping herself up against it with hands so tightly-clenched her knuckles were white, and her riotous curls fell to hide her face as she bowed her head. It took her several seconds to answer, and when she did, it was a strangled whisper. “ _His father ordered the hit on my family!_ ” 

The enormity of that betrayal left Zevran at a loss for words, but when Elissa’s shallow breathing hitched and caught in a sob, he stopped waiting for words to come, instead crossing the room to lay a hand on her shaking shoulder. She pushed off the table abruptly, and he started to take a step back, thinking she did not wish to be touched, but then she had him in an almost bruising embrace, her face buried against his neck. 

He could not have said how long they stood there, with his left arm wrapped around her waist and his right hand gently tangled in her hair; eventually they ended up on the couch, and he pull her against his chest, murmuring endearments in Antivan as she cried. Not for the first time, he wanted to kill this man for the pain he caused her, and truly, he did not care whether or not Nathaniel had indeed been aware of his father’s treachery. She would, however, and he dismissed the notion with an almost inaudible sigh against her dark curls. 

When Elissa raised her head at last to look at him with red-rimmed eyes, he took her face in both hands and kissed her at the corners of her eyes where they still streamed tears, then almost carefully on the lips, resting his forehead against hers even when the kiss had ended. 

“How could I be so oblivious?” she asked hoarsely. “Even if… even if Nathaniel didn’t know, our families were friends, and I never even would have guessed…” 

“You had not spent your life looking over your shoulder before that point,” Zevran countered, voice soft and even. “Those who do not yet know betrayal do not expect it… you cannot place that responsibility on yourself in hindsight.” 

She sniffed, pulling back enough to wipe angrily at her eyes. “If he did know…” 

“ _Elissa._ ” Zevran waited until she had looked up at him again, tracing his fingers down the side of her face and along her jaw, and wishing as intensely as he had ever wanted anything to be able to take this angry, uncertain pain away. “If he did know, then we will deal with him as you see fit. If he did not, you still need not ever encounter him again, if that is your wish. Either way… you could not have known, and you owe that man _nothing_ ,” he finished, finally allowing some of the vehemence he felt to color his words. 

She bit her lip and nodded, relaxing very slightly against him. Silence prevailed for a long time, broken only by their breathing and the light rustle of cloth where his hands traced aimless patterns across her back and down her side. 

“Zev?” she asked finally, quietly. 

“ _Yo soy tuyo._ ” 


	8. Sanctuary (Zevran/F!Cousland)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle for Kirkwall has erupted, the city is in chaos, and they're separated. (Angst & Feels)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Sanctuary," by Gareth Emery.

Both attuned to conflict, they had smelled the gathering storm for weeks, but even so, neither was quite prepared when it finally broke. 

_> Tune into the news quickly_

_> No good. Broadcast’s already down where I am. It’s begun._

The fighting started at the Gallows at noon, and by sunset, the sky’s bloody red was matched by the glow of the fires in the city below. Zevran and Elissa had been on opposite sides of the city, and at first, they had been able to communicate by text message, coordinating checks on the people they called friends and slowly working their way to a rendezvous. 

_> Temps all over the streets already, very jumpy. Would avoid if possible. _

_> No temps here yet_

_> KPD?_

_> A few. Balked at the number of rioters. Useless._

_> Have you heard from the hawkes?_

_> Yes. Safe so far. _

Zevran snapped his phone shut and slipped around a corner just in time to avoid the notice of a pack of mages – blood mage insurgents by the eerily similar patterns of carnelian-and-rust colored stains on their sleeves. Order was breaking down, to the point that anyone not a known ally must be assumed to be hostile. He had already had several near-misses, and he prayed that the templars and other supposed law enforcement Elissa was encountering were at least on something less of a hair-trigger. 

His heart was leaping like it wanted to be in his throat, but he shoved his worry down out of necessity. He could not afford to make mistakes, and preoccupation with her safety when he could not presently affect it would do neither him nor her any favors. 

Still, the urgency thudded in his pulse like a persistent bass line, pulling his feet into a rhythm that only adrenaline could sustain. 

> _Nearly to your place_

The assassin allowed himself a split-second to feel relief. They would meet up at his apartment, pick up anything of use they could carry, and make their way to safety together – and as ridiculous as he knew the feeling was, they had always seemed invulnerable as a team, the awareness that had sprung up between them on that first night since matured into a bond of such immediate, synergistic trust that Zevran’s memories of past partnership even with Taliesin seemed stilted and broken by comparison. 

> _See you there_

> _careful fighting’s ugly_

Zevran’s breath hitched and his footsteps sped even faster, every sense straining for the tiniest hint that might give him the edge he needed to avoid a disastrous encounter while his fingers moved almost of their own accord, desperate instinct demanding words. 

> _I love you, elissa_

[SEND FAILED. TRY AGAIN?]

<send>

His hand clenched around the phone. 

[SEND FAILED. TRY AGAIN?]

<send>

[SEND FAILED. NO SIGNAL.]

Only the deepest preservative instincts kept him from hurling the phone against a building as he kept running. It was possible, however unlikely, that whatever had taken out cell service in the area might not be permanent. 

A minute passed, then five. She would probably be there by now, and the lack of cell service wouldn’t matter anymore as soon as they were together. The damage to the buildings in the area was starting to worry him; some of it was definitely magical in origin, but there was nothing he could to but keep running. 

Another ten, and he turned onto his street –

Zevran’s steps stuttered to a halt. The screams were louder here, several injured people crawling away from the flames that licked hungrily at the barely-standing husk of his apartment building. 

Had it been a bomb? A fireball? 

It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered save that he find her. Taking off at a trot again, he passed by every piteous body he saw, staring, both praying for and dreading the moment he recognized one. Perhaps she had only been nearby; perhaps she was only injured; perhaps she had escaped –

A ragged shout tore from his throat, her name almost lost in the roar of the dying city. 

Later, he could not have said how long he had spent searching the rubble and the surrounding area, or how many calls for help he had ignored because they were not _hers_. He only knew that some detached, almost unfamiliar part of his mind had kept a coldly meticulous record of that search, gradually narrowing the scope of places she could be until, like a timer going off, it informed him that if she was in fact alive, he would not find her here. 

Part of him screamed its indignation at the thought that he should leave; he needed to search every body, every charred husk; he needed to _know_ or the uncertainty would kill him as surely as would his grief. But the cold voice knew that if there was any chance… he had to go. Keep running. He had to _hope_ in a way that would not have even been possible for him until the day she had pulled him from the very gullet of a Crow trap, effectively waking him from death. 

There were so many places she _could_ have gone, but only one that made more sense than the others, and it was toward the city gates he finally turned, shutting down everything but senses and survival instincts and sprinting through the rubble-strewn streets. 

The closer he came, the more chaos he encountered – all-out sorties between law enforcement and bands of mages or rioters, shrieking families trying to protect themselves and their belongings, and the ever-present opportunists of conflict, the vultures following in the wake of the wolves. None of it mattered. He dodged where he could, killed where he had to, and kept running. 

He didn’t ask himself how he would find her; that would come later. His only task was to reach the gates.

_Reach the gates._

_Keep running and –_

“ZEVRAN!” 

The gates were in sight when he heard his name, a shout barely loud enough to carry, but it was enough. His heart nearly stopped until he turned to see her running through a side alley, soot mixing with blood on her skin and her hair charred and wild. 

( _Of all the memories of her face he had and would accumulate, this was the one he would cherish most fiercely_.)

They collided as if each feared they chased a mirage, but she was solid and real and alive against his chest and his lips and the only thing he remembered saying was what he had tried to say earlier and failed, but really, that was the only thing that needed to be said. There was no time to savor the reunion, that utter relief that turned an apocalypse into a trifle against the enormity of their victory, and yet it did not matter. 

There was no time to do anything but run, so run they did – out of the city and away from the gouts of smoke to the sweet-salty air at the edge of the sea. 


	9. Sixx AM (Zevran & Anders)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Everybody gets high / Everybody gets low / Everybody gets bruised / Everybody gets sold…” (Angst)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Sixx A.M.," by Van Nuys.
> 
> OH MY GOD SELF, LIGHTEN UP ALREADY. (Or blame people for sending you angsty songs, maybe.)

Zevran appreciated the apostate healer in Darktown; the man excelled at his craft and had saved Zevran a great deal of unpleasantness on multiple occasions. The assassin appreciated Anders - oh yes - but he did not understand him at all. 

That was perhaps not entirely accurate. In the abstract sense, Zevran understood crusaders, as they existed in not insignificant numbers and tended to leave a rather deep impression on the world when powerful enough. What made no sense to him was instead the man’s almost unwilling tug-of-war with the idea of self-immolation for his cause. (Which could be quite literal given that he was a mage…) 

Zevran had encountered zealots aplenty, but Anders was… not quite that. He had the underpinnings of a much more easygoing creature; it showed in the flashes of almost innocent humor and instinctive compassion toward most of those in need of it. But that gentleness was in what appeared to be a great deal of tension with this burning martyr-in-waiting who was speaking to him now.

“I don’t think you understand why this is so important,” came the fierce, low voice. ”No child born to magic should grow up as I did. I can’t just make it about me, and the freedom I gave up everything to take.” 

Once - near the end of his coal-feathered past - Zevran would have taken offence to that. Now, he only felt a melancholy sort of amusement. 

“I understand more than you think, my friend.”


	10. Make It Gold (Zevran & Marian Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chance encounter turns into a more exciting night. (Humor-ish)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Make It Gold," by Ohbijou.

Zevran strode into the Hanged Man, at loose ends for the evening and restless. When he saw Marian Hawke sitting alone off to the side, he delayed his planned acquisition of a beverage to turn toward her. They had only met in passing, most of Zevran’s experience with the Hawke family having been with Garrett, but she was a friendly face and at the moment not a very happy one. 

“Marian, my dear, what brings you to such a lonely table this night? I could not help but notice you here,” he said as he approached. 

Her eyes flicked up to acknowledge him, bright blue even in the taproom’s somewhat dingy light, though looking rather tired at the moment. ”Zevran, right?” He nodded graciously. ”I needed to get out of the apartment for a while and didn’t much care for dealing with other people’s bad moods. My own is quite enough,” she finished with a mirthless chuckle. 

“Ahh, I see. You do not wish for company at all, then? I will leave if that is so.” 

The woman quirked a dark eyebrow at him, considering for a moment before one corner of her mouth tilted slightly up. ”Actually no, as long as you’re not pissed off at the world or at me, I’d be glad for it.” 

He laughed at that, inclining his head and taking a seat across from her. ”I am certainly neither of those.” Her drink was nearly empty and he almost waved for a waitress to buy her another, but a different idea flitted across his mind and he immediately altered course. ”I’d thought to go…. shopping… tonight, in fact. Perhaps you would like to come with me? I expect it to be highly enjoyable.”

The other eyebrow rose to join the first. ”Shopping? Do tell. Or do you mean ‘shopping?’” 

She had clearly heard the emphasis on the word, then. ”For _scandal_ , my friend! Free to anyone with a discreet pair of eyes and ears and a knack for Hightown roofs… and quite lucrative at times, besides,” he elaborated with a madcap grin. 

Her surprised incredulity lasted only a moment before she laughed and tossed back the last of her drink, a mischievous glint lighting her eyes. ”Oh, why the hell not.”


	11. Kinky (Zevran/Carver Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carver wants to broaden his horizons, and Zevran is very good at that sort of thing. (Mild bondage and D/s, but more discussion of it than actual action. Non-explicit.)

“I am certain you have seen films or photographs of this sort of… recreation, else you would not have asked me to show you,” Zevran said, eyeing the young man who stood shifting nervously across from him. “The first and most important thing I will tell you is that most of them get it all wrong.” 

Carver gave him an incredulous look. “How… how do you mean?” 

Zevran grinned, a slow, spreading expression that turned his already-sharp features downright predatory. “I mean,” he answered, stalking forward deliberately and holding Carver’s eyes, “that they treat the _technology_ as the focus. The costumes, the absurdly complicated furniture, the chains, the ropes, the whips, paddles, and every other implement of torture that was never actually used to torture someone… these things are all well and good, but too often they serve only to obscure the point.” 

He was very close now, breath ghosting along Carver’s jaw and a hand tracing the skin beyond the open collar of his shirt, light and tantalizing. The human’s eyes fluttered closed with his shuddering exhale, and Zevran could feel gooseflesh under his fingertips. And he was silent. _Perfect_. 

All at once, Zevran’s hand left softness behind like a dream lost upon a snap-awakening and flicked up to grip Carver’s chin roughly, tilting his face up to him. Carver’s eyes flew open in shock. “Are you paying attention?” Zevran demanded, his voice now a whipcrack where it had been velvet. 

“I – yes! Of course I am!” 

“I am afraid that I do not believe you, _mi tesoro_ ,” he said regretfully, still only inches away from Carver’s face. “Can you tell me, then, what is the point these media charades are missing?” 

Carver blinked at him, licking his lips as if to begin speaking, but never quite getting anything out. 

“I am waiting…”

The human’s eyes fell closed again, squeezing in almost a wince. “I’m not sure,” he whispered, finally. 

“I thought as much,” Zevran said, letting amusement color his tone. “The point, my young friend, is the _tension_. Tension between master and submissive, pain and pleasure, fear – “ His eyes flared, and his grip tightened threateningly, making Carver’s breath hitch. Then with Carver’s jaw still in hand, he closed the distance and kissed him, hard and deep, leaving the human gasping when they parted. “ – and desire.” 

He released Carver at last and stepped away far enough to circle the young man slowly as he continued to speak. “It is this tension that creates the excitement. Everything else is mere embellishment. Do you understand?” 

“I think so…” Carver began to turn his head, trying to keep up with Zevran’s motion, but the assassin would have none of that, surging forward to grip the man’s short hair and turn his head back to face forward, away from Zevran. 

“I do not recall giving you permission to move.” 

He could almost _hear_ Carver blinking. “I’m sorry… sir.” 

_Much better. You are learning, whether you know it or not_. 

Zevran grinned, caressing the other man’s ear with his breath and a flick of his tongue as he spoke. “Oh… not yet, I think… but you will be.” 


	12. You Found Me (Mother Bryony Verreuil & Garrett Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the wake of his mother's death, Garrett is convinced to go talk to a priest about it. (Angst and Philosophy)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "You Found Me," by The Fray.
> 
> Bryony's an OC of mine, and this is her first incarnation. She was created as a personal challenge to write an earnestly religious character. I rather like her Templar and Disney Princess versions better than this one, but those don't have fics.
> 
> If you're interested, for as long as tumblr doesn't delete her, her RP blog (with bio, etc) is here: http://motherbryony.tumblr.com/

“Garrett? Garrett Hawke?” she greeted, a bit uncertainly. Sebastian had been adamant that his friend needed to talk to a priest, but from the looks of the man before her, he may very well not _want_ to. While she certainly was a priest and understood well that what was needed was not always what was simple or easy, Mother Bryony also tended to be hesitant to impose her company on anyone. Especially someone grieving, as Hawke reportedly was. 

The tall, powerfully-built man grunted an assent, nodding curtly. Though the outer cloisters were tranquil, dampening all extremes with their quiet grace, his presence seemed to defy that understated peace and fill the whole courtyard instead of simply the archway he leaned against. His eyes were stormy as he glanced up at her. “You’re the one Sebastian wanted me to talk to.” 

“Yes.” She paused a short distance away from him and simply stood, her hands clasped in front of her, watching him carefully. She would have to make it clear that she did not expect him to endure her presence any longer than he would choose to of his own accord. “I am Mother Bryony Verreuil, originally of Amaranthine.”

“Fereldan?” his dark brows rose. “You don’t sound it, but then you don’t really sound all that much like a Marcher, either.” He paused. “Nor Orlesian,” he added as an afterthought, presumably recognizing her surname’s origins. 

She inclined her head slightly, acknowledging the observation with a tiny smile. “I was bombarded with so many different accents in my childhood that none of them quite managed to stick and stay stuck.” 

“I did most of my growing up in Lothering,” Hawke said. “Then we – “ His words broke off into a scowl, and Bryony frowned slightly. 

“I have heard that you recently lost your mother,” she murmured. “My deepest sympathies for that.” 

He gave her a faintly exasperated look that seemed to say, ‘ _Yes, that’s why Sebastian dragged me here and you know it; why make it sound incidental?’_ before nodding again. “Thanks.” It was the sort of perfunctory gratitude one expressed when one did not really believe what had been said. She supposed that was to be expected, as she had not –

“A mage, a fucking _necromancer_ killed her,” he spat out with sudden venom. Bryony blinked, not really surprised by his outburst so much as the content of it. Sebastian had not shared the details. 

“I’m terribly sorry; that must have been – “

He cut her off. “Pretty awful, yeah. Had this whole experimental setup, trying to remake his dead wife. He’d been killing women for months to harvest their body parts.” She was unsure what would be best for her to say, after he had stopped her before, so she held her silence and let him talk. “Just kind of _hanging out_ , you know; no signs of trouble from the KPD or Maker forbid, the templars.” 

_Oh._

“They were just too busy playing watchdog over a bunch of mages who’d already been imprisoned and tortured to make sure they wouldn’t deal with demons, and never harmed a person in their lives. Just in case. Terrible threat to the general welfare, those Circle mages.” He was growling the words now, staring her down as if daring her to try to defend the way things were in the face of what had happened to him, to his family. 

She opened her mouth, then closed it again without saying anything. What _could_ she say that would mean anything at all? He wasn’t here looking for solace or spiritual advice, of that she was certain, but she couldn’t bring herself to walk away, either. 

“Why did Sebastian send me to you, anyway?” Hawke asked, somewhat more calmly, though with a persistent note of irritation. 

To that she had no real answer. She spread her palms in front of her in bewilderment, replying, “I don’t know. I can only guess that he tried to help and was unsatisfied with his own efforts.” 

“Aren’t you Mothers supposed to have the answers to everything?” 

Bryony snorted softly. “Some of them think so. I entered the Chantry precisely because I didn’t. Make of that what you will. I wish…” she let out a long, steadying breath. “I wish I did have answers for you, Serrah Hawke, or if not answers, justice.” Something odd flickered across his face at that statement, but she could not begin to name either the emotion or its source. “But I don’t, and I won’t pretend to. The only thing I can hope to do is carry on with the reasons I came to Kirkwall. Perhaps something I learn may, in some small way, guide us to a way to better safeguard our people.” 

Hawke shrugged, almost as if shaking himself out of whatever dark reverie he had been in. “Maybe so. Good luck with that. If you’re looking to learn, though – _really_ learn – you won’t do much of it in here.” He gestured derisively at the carefully-maintained, (usually) quiet cloister before turning to go. “I can’t really say it’s been a pleasure, but I meant that bit. Good luck.” 

“Maker be with you,” Bryony said automatically to his retreating form. 

_But that’s just the problem, isn’t it? He doesn’t think the Maker_ was _with him. The Chantry certainly wasn’t._

_And is he really wrong, then, if the Maker’s instruments have failed?_


	13. Come Undone (Mother Bryony Verreuil & Carver Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bryony and Carver talk about finding identity as a younger sibling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Come Undone," by Duran Duran.

“No one really understands,” the young man muttered, looking embarrassed. “It’s not really _about_ my brother.” 

Mother Bryony’s slim, brown fingers toyed idly with the end of her sash as she favored him with a wry smile. “No, it isn’t, is it? You don’t want to be _him_ ; you want to be _relevant_. Sound about right?”

Eyes that had been fixed resolutely on the floor flicked upward in surprise. 

“I have an older sister,” Bryony said in answer to his unspoken question. “A brilliant, successful older sister. And she didn’t have to tease me and try to make me think I was adopted, because, well, I knew I was.” 

“…Oh. Sorry.” Carver looked embarrassed rather than sullen, now, and she shook her head and hastened to amend that. 

“Don’t be. I’m quite happy where I am now. She’s even one of my best friends, and unsurprisingly enough, that happened around the time I figured out who I actually was.” Her smile went from wry to impish, and she chuckled slightly. “I think Jocelyn was as glad as I was that I didn’t have anything to prove anymore.” 

Carver’s arms crossed over his chest, his face a profoundly even mix between skepticism and interest. “So how did you do that? You obviously ended up here, but how?” 

“Well, for starters, my uncle died,” she answered. It probably wasn’t what he’d been expecting. “My father’s younger brother. I… knew him, and liked him, but it hit Dad really hard. Jocelyn too – our uncle had lived near my family before they adopted me, and when I was really too young to remember most of it, but she was very close to him. I was upset that he’d died, but I was much more upset by how much it hurt them and how powerless I felt to do anything about it. And I found myself in the chapel one night, after his funeral, looking for comfort, and after a while realized that I wouldn’t find it there myself, but in helping them get through it, however I could. And that being able to do that was more important to me than anything else in the world.” She shrugged slightly. “So, here I am.” 

“I don’t think…” Her acquaintance gestured mutely, frustrated. 

Bryony smiled gently. “I’m not telling you it will happen for you like it did for me. It probably won’t. From what little I know of your older brother, it sounds like he’s got the hero complex of the family, rather than you.” Carver’s snort and eyeroll confirmed that guess rather resoundingly, making her laugh. 

“But my point is that if you can find what you really care about – not how you want people to see you, and not in relation to what the rest of your family is or does; what matters to _you_ for its own sake – that’s how you’ll get where I think you want to be.”


End file.
